


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by insideimfeelindirty



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas fic, F/M, emotionally constipated bellarke, you LEFT me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8847676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideimfeelindirty/pseuds/insideimfeelindirty
Summary: Bellamy hates Christmas at the best of times, but this year he hates it more.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [Bellarke.com](bellarke.com) Christmas calendar - prompt: Angst give me all the angst and emotionally constipated bellarke

 

 

  

He hates Christmas. He’s never liked it, not since he turned five and realised he wasn’t going to get all the new toys his friends were sure to clock up nor spend the holidays in a haze of sugar and adventure. It had always been a skinny affair for him and Octavia, thin on family, tradition and love, heavy on absence, loss and lacking. Even as they grew older, even as he tried to compensate for the holes his mother left, it had never felt like something to look forward to. He dreaded taking his sister for a drive to look at all the Christmas lights decorating everyone else’s houses, stressed about coming up with something both festive and edible enough for just the two of them for Christmas dinner, never feeling like it was enough, like he was enough.

 

 

He hates Christmas even at the best of times, but this year he hates it more. The party around him is buzzing, he is surrounded by his friends, but he has spent the majority of the night nursing a single bottle of beer by himself, peeling off the label in tiny strips, rolling them into tiny balls and flicking them at Murphy’s tiny head. He finally snaps after one grazes the tip of his ear, pelting a not entirely empty solo cup at his forehead and hitting the bullseye. He turns back to his conversation with a snarl and no further comment, leaving him alone again.

 

He knows full well his friends are close to done with him, he sees the way Jasper has avoided him studiously all night, the way Monty’s eyes flicker uncertainly away during the lightest small talk. Murphy and Raven are more direct, littering their stilted conversations with profanity and insults, but with less and less of the usual sarcasm. Even Miller’s jaw tenses whenever he comes over. He’s pretty sure he only invited him as a courtesy. 

 

He can hardly blame them for losing their patience. He’s big enough to admit he’s been an asshole the last year. He’s caught himself snapping at them or giving clipped, curt answers to any questions about his emotional state more times than he’d care to count. Invitations to hang out or go anywhere or do anything have dried up over the months after being turned down too many times. Whenever he has turned up it has always ended in angry outbursts fuelled by too much alcohol and too little control, sometimes even threats of violence. He know’s he’s being a gigantic dick, but there is this devastating anger thrumming away under his skin that he just can’t reign in, threatening to tear him up from the roots. Yet he holds on to his anger, because he’s not ready for what letting go means yet.

 

He runs a palm through his hair, sighing deeply at the gnawing feeling inside, wishing he could snap out of it just for one night. Everyone else seems to be having fun, smiling freely and leaning into each other with a natural sort of ease he hasn’t felt in forever. There are bright fairy lights decorating the windows of Miller’s apartment, no doubt Bryan’s input, and there’s even a tiny tree squeezed into the corner. There is some sort of sickly sweet eggnog concoction dreamt up by Jasper being passed around and everyone is as relaxed and jolly as you’d expect when you have time off work and you’re surrounded by all your friends. Last year, this is the kind of Christmas he didn’t entirely hate, the kind that felt a little warmer and fuller than those of his childhood. But this year it feels even more depressing than the first year after his mom died. 

 

He gets up from the sofa, determined to suffer alone and not ruin the rest of the evening for his friends. It’s as much of a Christmas present to them he can manage this year. He mumbles a few half assed goodbyes, and he can see actual relief in their eyes, and it stings just a little.

 

The hallway outside Miller’s apartment is dark, but even in the glow of the streetlights streaming in from the window he recognises her. Her hair is shorter and her cheeks more hollow, but she is the same in every other way. Stormy blue eyes and glowing golden hair, she is as devastatingly beautiful and dangerous as always, the quiet before the storm. 

 

 

She stares at him like she means to persuade him with her eyes alone, like she can erase the past year with one look. And if he’s honest with himself, she could. He never stood a chance against those eyes. He looks at her, helplessly frozen in her attention, heart curiously silent in his chest as if it stopped completely. 

 

 

He breaks first, taking a long stride towards her, closing the distance with a huff and a rush. He wraps her up in his arms, the air whooshing out of her lungs with the force. He picks her up easily, swinging her around until her legs wrap around his back and nothing can come between them. He buries his face against her neck, breathing her in and his heart jumps back to life, fighting a bloody battle against his ribs. 

 

“I missed you,” she whispers, nose bumping against his neck, arms clutching him tighter. She smells like too-sweet coffee and the stale, recirculated air of airplanes. 

 

He doesn’t respond, just holds her tightly, not knowing what any of it means. 

 

* * *

The initial elation wears off real quick. It’s two days before he sees her again, the collective excitement of their friends sweeping her up and dragging her away from him immediately. He leaves the party without having spoken more than two words to her and she doesn’t call the day after or the next.  He quickly comes to realise that having her back isn’t suddenly going to erase his anger or solve all his problems. He’s been kidding himself this whole year thinking that if she’d only come back home he’d be fine.

 

Days later, at yet another Christmas party he’s automatically invited to but possibly not expected to attend, he watches her from across the room. She’s talking animatedly to Raven, blonde curls bouncing as she emphasises her story. Jasper slides up and wraps his arms around her in an engulfing embrace, and it’s hard not to feel a little jealous at the ease of it all. This time last year, that was him. This year there is a sting in his chest with her name on it. 

 

 

“Happy she’s back?” Miller asks carefully, watching him through guarded eyes. 

 

“I don’t know,” he responds truthfully, and Miller blinks furiously, shoulders sagging slightly. It’s probably relief that he didn’t immediately bite off his head, he realises. 

 

He’d naively thought that once Clarke came back they could just pick up where they left off, that it would feel as natural now as it did then. There isn’t exactly a word for what they were to each other, no clear definition of how their relationship was just _more_ than normal friendship. They were good friends then, _best_ friends even, but over the months before she left there was this growing certainty between them. A certainty that something more was going to happen, nothing that needed rushing or defining, just the two of them turning into what they were always supposed to be. 

 

 

But then she’d left, suddenly and without explanation. She hadn’t needed to explain, of course, he knew very well why, but that hadn’t stopped him wanting that explanation anyway. He’d wanted her to spell it out, why her pain mattered more than his, why he wasn’t enough to keep her here. 

 

“She’s different,” he offers, throwing Miller a bone for his unquestioning loyalty through it all.

 

And she is. Her back is straighter. Her eyes are brighter. Her smile is sure, like she fought for it and is proud to hang it on her face. And he’s ashamed at the small voice in his head telling him he didn’t put it there for her. 

 

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” Miller says, but it’s not a question, merely a statement. 

 

They fall quiet, shuffling closer as Clarke slides past them and heads towards the bathroom. She doesn’t even brush against him, but he feels the electricity radiating of her as she passes, the crackling loud enough to drown out the sound of his beating heart. She passes without a word, and he’s left wondering if the hug two nights ago was some sort of mirage his parched mind conjured up.

 

 

His palms are sweaty and he’s trying to come up with some sort of plausible excuse to explain to Miller why he’s having to leave the party immediately, when Jasper’s excitable voice shatters all his resemblance of composure. 

 

 

“Aw, you’re under the mistletoe!” he practically shrieks, pointing wildly at the offending sprig dangling over his head. 

 

He looks down to see that Clarke has emerged from the bathroom, and Jasper’s exuberance has frozen her in place, which was presumably the intended outcome. He can practically hear Miller’s eyes rolling back into his head. Clarke’s eyes are wide and her lips slightly parted, and in his sappiest moments this is exactly how he’d imagined they might finally cross that line last Christmas. But that was then, and this is now, so he simply snorts loudly and stalks across the room shaking his head. 

 

 

He slips out onto the balcony, sounds of Miller berating Jasper disappearing as he slams the door behind him a fraction too loud. He’s pretty sure Raven is going to chew him out for that, he knows full well that the downstairs neighbours already have it in for her because she insists on tinkering with motorcycle engines in her apartment at all hours. He’s barely sat down on the rickety old bench before the door opens again, Jasper’s defence filtering through for a moment, before it closes carefully. He doesn’t have to lift his head to know it's her. 

 

She slides down next to him, and it shouldn’t feel so hard to look her in the eye but he can’t bring himself to face her. It was never awkward like this between them, it was always so easy laying himself bare to her and beg her to pick up the pieces. But now he’s choking on unspoken anger and blame, throat thick with accusation.

 

“That was cold, Blake,” she finally says, small smile in her voice to cover her insecurity. 

 

“Yeah well, I didn’t think it could get any more awkward than it already was,” he retorts, hearing the petulance in his own voice. 

 

“I just don’t know what to say to you.”

 

“How about sorry I left? That might be a good start."

 

“You know I had to go-"

 

“I _don’t_ know that actually."

 

“For me. I had to go for _me_."

 

Their voices become hard and strained within seconds, squaring up and challenging the other to bloody battle. He takes a deep breath, burying his face in his hands, and trying to rain in his galloping temper. She always had a way of setting him on fire, but it’s the first time he’s afraid of the burn. 

 

“I know you know that." 

 

Her voice is soft now, trying to control herself too. There is a plea in her tone, an unspoken apology that he just can’t accept. They always ran on wordless communication, but right now he needs neon signs and shouting from rooftops, not silent understanding. 

 

“I was so angry at you for leaving."

 

There is a tremble in his voice that he can’t keep out, partly made of anger, partly powered by pain. He figures by now the two go hand in hand, he is as much one as he is the other. 

 

“My dad died, Bell."

 

Goosebumps erupt on his skull as she uses that old pet name, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut so he doesn’t look at her and forgive her everything. Her dad died, but his mom died too, merely months before, and he thought they’d been holding each other up. He’d been devastated to find she’d pulled the rug from under his feet.

 

“You weren’t the only one in pain,” he starts, a wave surging up inside him, drowning out reason and quashing any restraint. “You got to go off and heal, while I’ve been stuck here, just trying to hold myself together, because I had to. For Octavia."

 

“You were coping-"

 

“You think I was coping? I wasn’t coping, I was covering. For _you_. So that _you_ could grieve. But no one was there for me. You weren’t there for _me_." 

 

His whole body is quivering with anger now, oscillating against the crushing waves of rage. He grits his teeth, clenches his jaw and finally looks at her, crestfallen and slack jawed. Her eyes are dark and wet, drowning in his current. 

 

“I’m.. I-"

 

“You know what, I can’t do this tonight."

 

He jerks up from the bench, briefly wondering how they ended up here. He accused her of having changed, but he doesn’t recognise himself anymore. He doesn’t recognise them. 

 

“Happy Christmas, Clarke.”

 

The door slams behind him, and it makes him jump, even if he’s the one that swung it close. 

 

 

* * *

 

He can’t avoid her for the rest of the week. Every night is another party, a new tradition amongst their friends now that all of them are mostly orphaned and don’t have anywhere else to go for the holidays. He considers not going at all, but he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and no other friends to lean on, so he figures enduring the extreme tension is better than drinking alone. 

 

So he accepts her presence, even though he never relaxes into it. He still watches her from across the room, stiffens when she moves too close, goes out of his way to seem deep in conversation if she tries to approach him. He’s pretty sure it’s awkward for everyone, but on the plus side he’s finally making an effort with his friends again and to their credit they all seem to understand what he needs and give it to him without question.

 

She tries to approach him a couple of times, but after a mostly ending up trying to engage with his turned back she seems to give up. He can’t help but feel disappointed when she does, even though he’s the one doing the rejecting. He steals looks at her when her attention is off him, his heart pounding with its shattered remains as if he’s scared to get caught. Sometimes he does, but he pulls up his defences immediately, still too wounded to give an inch. 

 

When it’s his turn to host he knows his time is up. He thinks about cancelling, but Octavia is coming back from Lincoln’s especially and Monty has been working with Jasper on perfecting a mulled wine recipe that actually sounds nice and everyone is too excited for him to seriously consider letting them all down. He manages to avoid Clarke seamlessly all evening, but when Raven and Roan finally shut the door behind them close to four in the morning he knows she’s still sitting on his couch, waiting. 

 

He dicks around for a bit longer, emptying beer cans into the sink and making a feeble attempt at gathering the recycling. He’s only treading water, and by the looks Clarke throw him over her shoulder he knows she’s getting impatient. He misses how easy it used to be between them, how naturally the conversation would flow, how there was never any questions between them except for when.

 

 

“Bellamy, come on,” she finally chides, when he makes a move to start stacking the dishwasher. Even now she looks at him like she knows every one of his plays, like he’s completely transparent. And to her, he probably is. 

 

He takes a deep breath, trying to persuade himself to be mature although that ship’s probably already sailed. He slides down on the sofa next to her, bracing himself for the inevitable. They’ve spent hours in this exact spot, just like this, but he’s never been scared of what she might pull out of him before. 

 

“I’m sorry, Bell,” she starts, already hanging up the intimacy between them for him to see by using that pet name. 

 

“You told me the night before you left,” he mutters, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice but failing miserably. 

 

“I couldn’t tell you sooner, you would’ve made me stay.” 

 

She doesn’t look at him as she says it, just stares ahead like she’s struggling to defend her decision even to herself. 

 

“And I had to go. For me. I know you know that."

 

“You didn’t call, or text or anything.”

 

His voice cracks slightly as he spits out the words, hurt seeping out from the wound his anger has opened. There is no controlling it, not around her. She always had this ability of seeing right into him, making him open up whether he wanted to or not. It’s what brought them close those months where they were inseparable and moving forward together with this bullet-proof certainty that had crumbled the minute she got on that plane and flew halfway across the globe to get away from him.

 

“I thought you would be ok, I thought you were managing."

 

“I needed you,” he admits, sighing in resignation. He’s been fighting this truth for a whole year, masking it with anger. It scares him how lost he’s been without her. “I needed you, and you left me."

 

“I’m sorry,” she says again, softer this time. “I thought I was doing you a favour, leaving so I wouldn’t drag you down with me."

 

Her words hang in the air, like an echo that just won’t die down. It hurts more than he thought it would, finding out he can’t lay all his problems at her door and expect her to clean up. 

 

“I guess I was wrong."

 

She sounds as pained as he feels, and when he dares to look at her it’s worse than he ever imagined. Her eyes are wet and red, her chin slumped against her chest in either shame or defeat, which is hard to watch even with 12 months of righteous anger bolstering him. She’s got her hands balled into tight fists in her lap, and he wants to take them in his and tell her it’s ok, but he can’t. They are not who they need to be right now for him to do that. 

 

“I guess you were."

 

 

It’s late but he doesn’t feel it, barely feels the alcohol in his system. He just feels heavy and lost, like he’s still drowning but doesn’t have the anger to keep him afloat anymore.  

 

 

“You were my best friend, my favourite person.” It’s just as painful to hear her say those words as it is to look at the gleam in her eye as she says it. He hates the past tense in her words, hates that they can’t just flick a switch and fix everything. "I just want to be us again."

 

“I want to be us too."

 

He’s not ready to forget everything, but he thinks maybe he can start forgiving. The truth is that having her back but not having her as his friend might just be worse than having her gone. 

 

She smiles carefully then, unclenching her fists and reaching for his hand tentatively. He can’t help but notice the tremble of her hand before he grasps it, shooting her a small smile in return. It feels like a start. 

 

 

“I missed you so much,” she smiles, and it goes a long way to put some of the pieces of his heart back into place. 

 

He follows her to the door when exhaustion overcomes them both, and she wraps him up in one of those hugs that seem to last forever. Her arms fling around him with surprising strength, fierce and almost desperate. He sinks into her, and she smells like cinnamon and cloves.

 

 

When he pulls back he doesn’t pull far enough, hovering over her as if gravity is trying to pull him back down. His throat goes dry as he takes in her dark eyes and pink lips, and that electricity is back, practically shooting sparks as she wets her lips slowly, deliberately. He moves a fraction closer, not taking his eyes off hers, practically tasting the dark red wine stain on her lip. Her skin is soft and searing hot under his fingers, and he doesn’t even know when his hand flew up to stroke her jaw lightly. 

 

 

Her phone pings and the moment is gone, both of them jumping back from each other as if burned. 

 

“My Uber is here,” she breathes, and he’s never heard her voice that low before, almost like a growl. 

 

 

She is gone before he can process it, leaving him with her scent in his nose and her eyes haunting his mind. He doesn’t sleep well that night, dreaming of the endless possibilities of what could’ve been.

 

* * *

 

New Year’s at Jasper’s is exactly as ridiculous as he feared. There are glow sticks decorating every possible surface, inside balloons, in the bath tub filled with ice, around the cups filled with an unidentifiable liquid that tastes like his hangover might come early. They even dangle from most of the party hats he’s been insisting people wear all night.

 

He feels ridiculous in his tinsel covered one, cautiously eyeing the tarp that is taped to the ceiling fan, barely concealing more balloons and possibly confetti. He’s pretty sure there is a big plan for that tarp come countdown, but right now it just looks like an accident waiting to happen. He fidgets with the elastic under his chin, but the withering look Jasper throws him tells him there is no use fighting this particular battle. 

 

He takes another sip of his drink without thinking, nearly choking on the assortment of liquor burning its way down his throat. Still, he throws Jasper a hopefully enthusiastic smile, praying it goes a little way to repair the damage his constant brushing off has done to their friendship the last year. The double thumbs up he gets in return feels like he probably has better friends than he deserves. 

 

“At least it’s not a top hat,” Clarke smiles as she slides up next to him, sporting some sort of elaborate glitter paper crown on her head and he has to bite his tongue to not make a princess joke. It still feels too soon to joke with her like the last 12 months haven’t left deep marks. 

 

She takes a big sip from her glow stick adorned cup before he has a chance to warn her, but she seems to be able to keep it down without the smallest hint of a frown. 

 

“How are you drinking that nightmarish concoction with a straight face?"

 

She sends him a sly smile and shrugs casually.

 

“Maybe I can just handle my alcohol. Unlike some people I know."

 

“No. Nope. That’s not it. You can’t handle your alcohol at all."

 

“Ok, so maybe I tipped it out and replaced it with beer."

 

“I knew it!” He can’t stop the grin on his face, the warm feeling in his gut from the familiar ease between them spreading through him like fire in dry grass. “Teach me your ways, Senpai, otherwise I think I’ll need to start my walk of shame about three hours before midnight."

 

Her laugh is light and bubbling, and she glows brighter than anything else in the room. He’s missed this so much, just basking in her light and letting her lift him up without even trying. He’s been so tired all year, tired of his own anger, tired of the emptiness she left behind that wouldn’t let him carry on. 

 

Now, with her by his side all night he feels energised, strangely elated. A current thrums steadily in his veins, the heavy bass of the music beating in his ears and if he were any sort of dancer he might take the opportunity tonight. And then it hits him, that this is the first time all Christmas, maybe all year, that he’s just enjoying himself, without some underlying anger or destructive instinct.

 

He can’t shake the feeling all night, not that he tries. He spends the night talking to and cracking jokes with his friends, only pausing slightly at their relief over the lightness of his mood. It feels good, like the world is finally back spinning on its axis.

 

Miller suggests they start Wednesday night game night again, a long-standing tradition that slowly disappeared with his darkening temperament. Raven deigns to talk to him in full sentences, even laughs at one or two of his lame jokes. Even Murphy shoots him a meaningful look and asks him if his cheeks are starting to hurt from all the smiling. They kind of are. 

 

He still watches Clarke from across the room, happily bouncing to the music and throwing sloppy arms around her friends. The difference now is that he doesn’t look away when she catches him staring. He just smiles wider, and she smiles back. It feels solid and warm, like it was always supposed to be like this.

 

As midnight draws close he’s buzzed and happy, watching his friends pair up inconspicuously. Raven and Roan have started early, he already has her pressed up against a wall but she’s enthusiastically into it and no one cares much, used to their overly heated PDAs. Octavia is curled up onto Lincoln’s lap, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on that for too long, suppressing overprotective big brother mode so swiftly that she would probably be proud of him. Monty’s got his arm slung around Harper, Murphy’s got his hand in Emori’s and Bryan and Miller are having some sort of hushed private conversation that’s making them both giggle softly and look at each other with wide, wet eyes.

 

Maya’s patiently waiting for Jasper with her arms crossed, looking almost saintly in her infinite patience. Jasper is practically chomping at the bit, tugging experimentally at the string attached to the tarp and releasing a small dusting of glitter onto Miller’s head. The grin spreading on Jasper’s face can’t be described as anything other than maniacal. 

 

The countdown starts, and he feels her slide up next to him, her arm brushing against his and sending little shocks over his skin that makes the hairs stand up. 

 

“Five!” she smiles up at him, eyes glittering just like the ridiculous crown that’s slightly askew on top of her curls.

 

“Four!” he smiles back, hand trembling slightly around his fluorescent solo cup. 

 

“Three!” Jasper yells, steadily getting more and more exuberant.

 

“Two!” the whole room shouts, euphoric to leave the past behind and to start fresh.

 

“ _One_ ,” he whispers as his breath leaves his body. 

 

There is a loud cheer as balloons come cascading down from the ceiling, and the air fills with glitter and confetti and pops of champagne bottles, but all he can see is her. 

 

Her lips are soft pressed against his, her breath warm against his skin. His stomach drops like the ball in Times Square and the goosebumps explode on his neck like fireworks. 

 

It’s over as soon as it started, a peck between friends really, but her eyes are heavy on him, not letting him out of the spell. Around them their friends are celebrating but neither of them seem to notice, frozen in the moment that seems to stretch between them. She licks her lips slowly and he’s hypnotised by the sight, his eyes following the trail of her tongue. He leans in slightly, searching her eyes for permission. She nods her head briefly and he takes a deep breath and a step forward. 

 

“Happy New Year!!"

 

Jasper is jubilant and completely unaware, flinging his arms around them and bringing them into a crushing group hug. He feels Clarke’s hand steadying herself against his stomach, her hair brushing against his nose and he’s pretty sure he’d still feel this dizzy even without the alcohol and Jasper’s insistent adoration. 

 

When Jasper bounds along to find his next victims, the moment is gone, a happy but slightly embarrassed smile passing over her face. Soon there are more hugs to be shared and drunken declarations of love to be had with their other friends, and a particularly strong embrace from Octavia pulls them apart.

 

No one has seemed to notice that he was holding Clarke’s hand in his up until that point. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He leaves the party just after she does, not having been able to get her alone. Just as he reaches for the door handle Monty corners him, slightly unsteady on his feet but with a determination in his eyes that belies the talking to he had to have given himself to muster up the courage for this.

 

“I’m glad you’re happy again,” Monty says, eyes clear and sincere. “You were always at your most emotionally healthy when you're around her."

 

He’s not quite sure how to respond to that, other than nod and send him a small smile. 

 

“She’s good for you,” Monty continues, clearly emboldened by his modest encouragement. “And you’re good for her too, even if she had to go halfway across the world to figure that out."

 

He doesn’t have a response for that either, swallowing hard around the words. Monty just pats him gently on the back and lets him go out into the cold night with the impression of her lips burning his mouth and his words ringing loudly in his ears. He takes the long way home, walking of his buzz but not managing to still his mind. He lets all the things that have and haven’t been said between them flood his brain, takes in every look exchanged, every small brush of hands gathering meaning as the memories rush back. 

 

By the time he makes it home he’s exhausted, but he can’t sleep, staring at the ceiling and twisting and turning in his sheets. They were right back to where they’d been before she’d left, but back then he’d been too wrapped up in himself to really see her and understand what she needed. He thought they’d been heading for a foregone conclusion, and there had been no need to rush anything or to voice anything out loud because he’d been so sure she’d been right there with him. He’d missed the signs that she’d been drowning in failed expectations and a grief so tangled up with guilt that it had been impossible for her to let go. 

 

He makes the decision in a split moment, rushing out of bed and grabbing blindly at whatever clothes he can find. He’s made it down five blocks before he notices he has no shirt on, just a denim jacket and a scarf, sweatpants and something that looks suspiciously like Crocs. He has no time to worry about how he looks, or how the hell those shoes even made it into his wardrobe, he just keeps going, running faster and faster, barely registering street lights and blaring car horns, blind to the looks he’s gathering from partygoers on their way home in the steady snowfall. 

 

He pounds loudly on her door, knowing how hard she sleeps when she’s been drinking, knowing exactly what she looks like when she wakes up the next day, knowing so much about her already but not how she’s going to respond to this. When she finally answers, hair an unruly mess and but her eyes uncharacteristically wide and awake, he knows immediately.

 

He doesn’t have to say anything, because he sees the exact same emotion in her eyes as he has coursing through his veins. When his lips meet hers again, he finally knows what she tastes like, what her tongue feels like against his, and how her heart sounds when it’s pounding to the same beat as his. 

 

She kisses him like she’s desperate to be kissed, like she’s aching all over, grabbing his hair and his ears and his clothes, anything to bring him closer. His skull smarts and there are scratches on his neck, but all he can feel is her mouth on him, demanding but soft, punishing but welcoming him. 

 

When they finally come up for air he leans his forehead against hers, nose brushing up to hers. He calms his breathing, inhaling her and locking her into his gaze and his arms. 

 

“I’m really glad you’re back,” he starts, and she shrinks slightly under his words. He brushes the hair away from her cheek and places his hand around her neck, pulling her back in. “You should stay if you want to, but you should leave if you need to."

 

He doesn’t let his eyes drop from hers, pressing his forehead into hers so she understands. He wants her, but he wants her to want this too, freely and without any strings. Because she wants to. 

 

She closes her eyes like it hurts to look at him, and his breath catches. 

 

“I want to stay."

 

When she opens her eyes again the smile on her lips has spread to her eyes, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. 

 

“I want you."

 

She pulls him over the threshold and into her arms, and he thinks maybe he can get to like Christmas after all. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There will probably be a smutty follow up to this if anyone is in the mood..?


End file.
